


Late to the party

by FavoritadelRe



Category: Political RPF - Canadian 21st c., Political RPF - France 21st c.
Genre: M/M, Macdeau, my first attempt at macdeau, that infamous interview
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FavoritadelRe/pseuds/FavoritadelRe
Summary: “I know you are good at pretending you are a genius, but...”“But even not being one, I am clever enough to turn the tables when I see the oportunity”, Emmanuel said, with one of his piercing glances “This is how things will be presented by my delegation. How things are already being presented and how they'll be remembered”Surprise!A little Macdeau based on that (infamous) video of leaders gossiping about Trump
Relationships: Emmanuel Macron/Justin Trudeau
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Late to the party

**Author's Note:**

> So this was around my computer from the time that infamous video of world leaders trashing Trump at the NATO summit came out, but I hadn't posted it. There are very good Macdeaus here and I am not sure mine is necessary, but there you go. As in my other fic, I must warn you that English is not my first language. So if you find some mispelling, I apologize in advance.  
> Also, I can't - no, really, can't - write explicit and I come with the (rather lame, maybe) excuse that I prefer to trigger the reader's imagination. So use it and forgive my incapacity...  
> Enjoy... and feel free to comment.

**Late to the party**

“Is that why you were late?”

At the question by Boris Johnson, Justin Trudeau waits for the answer, a smile in his lips and a sort of ironic glint in his eyes. He understands, surely, the man just before him; and yes, there it is, from that other pair of blue eyes, a spark of amusement. He's holding a drink in his hand, just like him; he looks dapper and impecable in his suit, probably just like him; but he wears black shoes, unlike him, and, unlike him, he thinks brown shoes should be banned from official receptions. He has told him earlier. He's, as usual, a bit of an insufferable know-it-all, and he seems to be born to dwell in this kind of room, gold and red, with the patina of centuries and centuries of power surrounding them and in the company of royals. The weight of History, in four words. Or maybe not. Maybe he would be the black sheep, had he come into the world in a royal palace. Imagine Emmanuel as a prince but with an Olympique de Marseille shirt and swearing a lot. Or Liverpool, probably. So unbecoming. Justin decides to mentally archive such image for later. It may be useful when the summit is over.

And, of course, there are other individuals around him, even if he prefers to concentrate his attention and all the rest of his body or soul in Emmanuel. No less that Princess Anne has joined them after avoiding the Trumps, and the Prime Minister of the Netherlands is standing just at Emmanuel's left, touching his arm now and then as if reclaiming a bit of attention. Which Emmanuel displays, because there are few things in the World he enjoys more than generously sharing his attention. Overall, and for a royal reception, there is a lot of noise and chattering.

Justin knows why Emmanuel has arrived late, and it's not only because the man lives in his own time zone that could be called GMT+ Macron; he also thinks that Boris, in case he's reelected, will have to wait for him often, as anyone else. But this time, it's not his fault, he can say it. So he looks at the Frenchman's blue eyes and answers for him:

"He's late because he takes a 40-minute press conference off the top."

There's an amused chuckle from Boris Johnson, who slighly bends his knees and laughs as he does this. Is not very clear if that's his way to be funny, or an imitation, or something. Only to know he's hitting the right note with the circle of people surrounding him he takes a sip of his beer – he actually doesn't know what the heck Emmanuel is drinking, he must ask him later – ; he's maybe satisfied of how Rutte laughs and exclaims something about The fake media.

Oh if media knew.

The bilateral press conference between the President of the United States and that of the French Republic had been tense, to put it mildly. Justin had rarely seen something so awkward, not between two world leaders – and Heaven knew he had his own experience dealing with Trump's antics – but between two adult individuals. Or rather one of them behaved like an adult. The other was joking about sending djihadists to France, of all places. Emmanuel had answered with a cold _Let's be serious_ before debunking Trump's claims about terrorist of European origin in Syria. When in front of him, Trump didn't dare to repeat his comments about that now infamous interview Emmanuel had given to The Economist. That one with the brain dead comment about NATO.

Now Justin was grateful about that long-wided, deep as only deep Emmanuel's interviews could be existed; yes, it had stirred some shit between allies, commentors and journalists. The brain dead part about how Trump's unilateral retreat from Syria had left his allies in disarray – and sold the kurds to Erdogan – had caused overt indignation, as well as agreement behind closed doors. The usual he's right, but he shouldn't speak so openly that often had heard from Emmanuel's critics. Even he had felt forced to say in public that NATO was in perfect state, which was false. Every word he had pronounced to counter Emmanuel's had felt false, especially when his interview carried a complex vision of the world, a somber one by the way. He was no vulgar man, no vulgar politician. But he really lacked the skill of presenting things less bluntly and had the gift of angering everyone. But however, all the hostility NATO leaders could have felt because of the French president's words had vanished by now; a sort of _via crucis_ had been predicted for him, but he had managed to exit reinforced from that summit. This was the problem with him, he never was where one expected him to be. It was, also, his greatest virtue.

“I am surprised you didn't back me, honestly”, the French president had said, once the door of the room when they had their bilateral meeting was closed.

“Back you? About the brain dead comment?” Justin had replied, frowning. He was giving him his back, as he served him some whisky. “How could I have done that, Emmanuel?”

“You should have read the rest of the interview. In context...”

“I am very aware of the context, thank you very much” he handed him the glass, accidentally touching his fingers, who were cold “And I don't think it's helpful, in these times. Angela told me the other day that she was...”

“Trying to repair all that porcelain I am breaking”, the French president snorted. He took a seat in the blue sofa, without being invited to do so. He had taken his jacket off and sat in the border of the seat. Like he was impatient to jump on something.

Or someone.

“I think she is worried about you, about everything; about that turn you took in Russia” he sat at his side. His leg touched Emmanuel's, tense under the thin fabric of his trousers; he felt the warmth of his body, which seemed not affected by the little trip under the cold to Downing Street. The Frenchman was drinking the twenty-year old whisky now, then looked at his drink like he found the liquid fascinating. “No one understands anything”.

“Which turn? I am not saying we should be friendly to him” him being Putin of course “or to lift all the sanctions, just that we should remain very realist and don't leave Russia out... He'll be gone and NATO will remain, and then we'll have to rethink our relationship with Russia” he suddenly gets up, pacing the room, apparently exasperated at not being understood. Why was he so restless?

“I beg to disagree about him going anywhere” he leaned further “He wants to stay for ever, Emmanuel, and you know it perfectly; trying the appeasement never works. It's... not the moment to stir things up. It's naive, if you allow me to say so... ”

The President looked at him, his lips pressed. He left his glass in the nearest coffee table, adjusted his belt, repeatedly caressed his dark, silk tie. He finally crossed his arms. Oh, he didn't like to be called naive.

“I am many things, but naïve is not one of them. Seems I didn't explain myself clearly enough, but I am kind of happy this triggered a debate about the operative capacity and the future of our alliance” he smiles, with that boyish smile of his, as if he was suddenly proud of one of his mischiefs.

Justin got up, half annoyed, half admired at the younger man's statement. He felt his blood was on fire, maybe due to the whisky, maybe due to something else. There's no way he's being serious, he said to himself. No fucking way.

“Wait a moment, Emmanuel. You can't pretend that stirring debate and tricking Trump – Trump!, of all the possible people – into defending NATO was your plan all the way”. He saved the distance between them with three steps “I know you are good at pretending you are a genius, but...”

“But even not being one, I am clever enough to turn the tables when I see the oportunity”, Emmanuel said, with one of his piercing glances “This is how things will be presented by my delegation. How things are already being presented and how they'll be remembered”.

In the middle of the sentence he dared to wink an eye to him as he leaned and took his glass again, giving his whisky another sip. He was insufferable.

“And then I beg your pardon but we should be already discussing trade and all these annoying things, or we'll arrive late to Her Majesty's reception. I have made wait royals before, but I don't think that should become a established tradition”.

What provoked what happened just right after he had left again the glass in the coffee table? That drop of liquor that escaped from Emmanuel's lips and that he felt eager to wipe with his thumb, as he did? His words? His bravado about having fooled them all with that interview which no doubt was long-wided and deep and even visionary but at the same time clumsy enough to having angered them all? Justin wasn't sure, but after groaning something like _I don't care about the reception, or the Queen for that matter_ he crushed his lips against the Frenchman's, realizing that this was something he had wanted for a long long time. He felt the other man's surprise and tension, fearing he would react with indignation, or make a scandal, or cause a diplomatic row between their countries. Mentally repeating an apology like _I am not really into men, you know, I don't know what crossed my mind_ or something of that style.

But there was none of this.

There was a soft sigh before Emmanuel's lips opened softly, and started to respond to his kiss. His tonge tasted of liqueur and of Fisherman's friends pills, which made a curious mix. Then as his heartbeat raced, he felt himself pushed against the nearest wall by the younger, shorter man, whose hands were entangled in his hair. It's Emmanuel who breaks the kiss and looks at him, his blue eyes shining, and licked his lips, before asking:

“So, we don't really care about arriving late to the party, do we?” and he pushed him again, and this time the Canadian Prime Minister fell into the sofa.

“To this one and any other reception, as a matter of fact. From now on”, Justin replied as Emmanuel began to untie his silky, dark tie.

“That's what I thought”, the President said before joining him.

And this, in short, was why they had arrived late to the party and why, when asked about it, Emmanuel's eyes had a spark of genuine amusement that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you enjoy it? Leave a comment?  
> Did you not? You can comment too. As usual, feel free! :)


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